


The Taming of Merida

by RedheadEnthusiast



Category: Brave (2012)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, F/M, Imperial Officers, Imperialism, Master/Slave, Military, Military Background, Military Backstory, Military Ranks, Military Training, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Vikings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29216472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedheadEnthusiast/pseuds/RedheadEnthusiast
Summary: When the Dingwalls launch an unprovoked raid on their Southern neighbor, the repercussions will change Merida's fate forever and take her on a journey across the known world. What will she find in the cold Northern Woods, or the bustling Imperial Capital, is something no man or god can yet tell.
Relationships: Merida (Disney)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome. This is the first fic I've written and I'm always looking for constructive feedback on my style, pacing, etc. So be sure to let me know if you think something needs improvement. 
> 
> Some general acknowledgements before we begin:
> 
> 1) This story is based loosely on history, but inspiration from multiple time periods and cultures will be used. This is necessary because Brave itself draws on multiple time periods for its setting, like the Vikings and the Romans both being mentioned even though the Vikings didn't land in Britain until 400 years after the Romans left. So we're gonna use history more as a buffet table we can take what we want from rather sticking to a strict year. 
> 
> 2) The Roman Empire in this setting will more or less resemble the early Imperial period from the first to second century AD, which is the "Classic" Rome that everyone thinks of when imagining the Romans. Ya know, like the movie Gladiator. However, I may draw on other periods if I think it adds to the story.
> 
> 3) Some other works *may* make an appearance. Key word is may. Specifically Frozen and HTTYD, but I need to think about how to do that since I want to keep this fic in the realm of alt-history and adding ice magic and dragons would take it a bit farther away from that than I want to.
> 
> 4) All characters are the exact age they are in the movies. I’m not ‘aging up’ because I don’t really see the point. So any ‘underage’ tags are me covering my bases in regards to that.
> 
> 5) More tags can and will be added along the way as I think of them, but I’m 95% sure I got all the content warnings out of the way.

## Chapter 1: Merida

"So Ma, today I climbed Queen’s Tooth and drank from the Firefalls," Princess Merida said, with more than a hint of pride in her voice as she recounted her tale of scaling the perilous rock tower up to the fabled falls.

Fergus, her father and King of the Highland clans raised an impressed eyebrow. "Oh did ye now? They say only the Great Kings of Old were brave enough te drink from the Firefalls."

Across the table, Queen Elinor looked up distractedly as she opened another letter from the stack that lay in front of her. "Hmm what did you do today dear?" She asked as she opened an envelope bearing the seal of Clan Ringwald.

Merida gave a disappointed sigh and looked down at her food. "Nothing mum."

Elinor suddenly gave a startled gasp as her eyes raced over the words in front of her. "Oh that foolish, arrogant self righteous Eughh!" she spat before her inner diplomat forcefully re-asserted itself.

"What's ah matter dear?" Fergus asked from behind the mountain of chicken legs heaped on his plate.

"Lord Dinngwall launched a raid across the border. Robbed a few Roman towns and carried some o’ their people back for ransom."

Fergus’ eyes darkened. Accomplished diplomat he was not, being more comfortable in a battle or a feast than a negotiating room. But it didn’t take a trained ambassador to work out that raiding the Superpower to the South would have repercussions. And as the Dingwalls were sworn to Clan DunBroch, it would be Fergus who would have to answer for his wayward lord’s actions.

“Dingwall must be punished for this,” Fergus said to Elinor, though it sounded almost like a question rather than a statement.

“Aye he must,” she agreed as though she was tutoring a schoolboy in a subject he wasn’t very good at. “But we canna do it in a way that will upset the other lords. And the Romans will need to be paid restitution. Nothin fore it really, but we can make Dingwall bear some o’ that at least.”

Fergus furrowed his brow in concentration while Elinor grabbed another letter from the stack. Cracking the seal, she skimmed the contents before her eyes lit up.

“Fergus! The lords have accepted. They’ve all accepted.”

Merida, who had been silent up to this point, perked up at the new point of interest. “Who’s accepted what..”she asked uncertainly.

* * *

Two hours and a fight with her mom later, Merida lay in bed still seething at the unfairness of her parents decision. How could they go behind her back and decide to sell her off like some prized cow? And without even so much as asking her opinion first! Merida turned over and screamed into her pillow, frustrated but still blindsided and not sure what to do. She knew one thing though, this marriage would not go through if she could do anything about it.

* * *

Elinor lay in bed next to her husband. Despite the hour, her mind was racing, too full of thoughts to allow sleep to come. Her heart shifted between regret at the fight with her daughter and anger that Merida would not see the obvious truth that she was only doing what was necessary. Behind that, her rational mind reminded her that the situation with Lord Dingwall and the Romans was more important than her own family life. Slowly, the two topics began to blend into one as her exhausted mind lost the energy to partition them into separate mental spaces. Just before she slipped into unconsciousness, an idea hit her like a lightning bolt. But it could wait until the morning.

* * *

Merida sat sullenly in her chair beside her mother and father and brothers in the throne room. Her hair was pushed into a wimple and she was wearing a dress that was almost too tight to breath and too stiff to move. In front of her, the assembled lords and their retinues stood with their chests puffed out, all bravado and pride. All of them there to bid on her like a fine horse at the market.

Her attention was drawn back to the present as her father finished stumbling through the introductions and called on Clan Macintosh to present their suitor.

Lord Macintosh, a tall wiry man with a mane of wild black hair stepped forward. With a flourish and a bow, he indicated the similarly dressed young man next to him. “Your Majesty, I present my heir and scion, who defended our land from the northern invaders, and with his own sword, Stab Blooder, vanquished a thousand foes!”

With his father’s introduction, the young Macintosh drew his sword and twirled it in an elaborate display before flexing his muscles before the assembled crowd. Merida scoffed at the theatrics and the smug, self satisfied expression the young lord wore. Sure he might not be too hard on the eyes, and he’s clearly strong and fit, but he looks like he’s more in love with his own reflection than he could ever be for her. And that’s not even starting on that smug look that says ‘I’m the heavens’ personal gift to women everywhere. Nae. That pretty boy won’t do at all.

“Clan MacGuffin!” her father’s voice rang out when the cheers of the Macintosh clan had died down.

“Yer Majesty,” Lord MacGuffin, an oak of a man only moderately smaller than Fergus himself began. “I present, my eldest son, who scuttled the Viking longships, and with his bare hands, vanquished two thousand foes.”

Young lord MacGuffin, though sharing his fathers barrel chested build, looked more like a deer in the headlights than a proud warrior. But if there were any doubts of his personal prowess, they vanished when he broke an oak log in two with his bare hands. He..wasn’t bad, Merida had to admit. He had an innocent, almost baby like face and he didn’t seem so full of himself like the Macintosh boy. If first impressions were anything to go by, then he probably wouldn’t be the worst match in the world. Not like that was going to happen though, Merida reminded herself vehemently.

“Clan Dingwall!” Fergus announced as the final clan stepped forward.

Lord Dingwall was a short, squat old man whose hair had long ago gone white and bore more than a passing resemblance to a bridge troll.

“I present, my only son,” Dingwall said affectionately, gesturing to a tower of a man that looked nothing like him in any way. Easily four feet taller, with sun tanned skin that rippled with muscle and was criss crossed with the scars of previous battle, he towered over even Fergus. “Who was besieged by ten thousand Romans, and he took out a whole armada single handedly. With one arm he was..egh” he stopped mid sentence and reached behind the mountain of a man before pulling one of the scrawniest boys Merida had ever seen out into view. With a shock of pale blond hair that looked a lot like what Dingwall’s probably did 60 years ago, this boy was a much more believable scion of the old lord. “With one arm, he was steering the ship, and with the other, he held his mighty sword and struck down a whole attacking fleet,” Lord Dingwall finished, shaking the boy’s scrawny arms that couldn’t have been thicker than a chicken leg.

The room erupted in guffaws and snickers at the Lord Dingwall’s claims about his son’s prowess. Bristling at the insults, he looked ready to start a fight but was stopped by the queen clearing her throat from the dias.

“Thank you my lords,” Elinor intoned gracefully. “We’ll see you all settled in for the night, but first, we must deal with an unpleasant bit of business.” All hushed conversation died away and Merida sat a little straighter as the tone of her mother’s voice caught her attention. “I’m sure it is common knowledge by now that forces under the command of Lord Dingwall crossed the border and sacked several o’ the Roman’s towns. This action has jeopardized the peace between our peoples and risks dragging all of us into a war that we did not consent to.” Her gaze swept over the three lords to emphasize her point. Macintosh and MacGuffin looked carefully neutral and suspicious while Dingwall was openly outraged. “To rectify this wrongdoing, Lord Dingwall, you are hereby commanded by your royal liege to release all hostages you had taken to ransom. Furthermore, you will pay the ransom you were seeking for them yourself in restitution to the Romans. Finally, as we do not feel our daughter would be in good hands under your care, your son is disqualified from the games to win her hand. He may still compete, but his only prize will be the honor won at the games.”

Lord Dingwall’s face turned red with rage as he spluttered, but looking to the Lords he saw in their gleeful faces that he would get no help from them. Macintosh and MacGuffin were happy to have eliminated a rival contestant and increased their own chances at winning the hand of the princess. That queen was a clever one alright. She had thoroughly humiliated his clan and she’d done it such that the other lords were happy to let her do it. With no allies and no other option, he dipped his head, rage still boiling just beneath the surface. “Yes my queen, as you command.”

Merida watched the whole incident play out and felt conflicted. On the one hand, she was furious that her mother had once again made a major decision about HER life without so much as informing her before she did it. On the other hand, that Dingwall boy was plain weird. The way he stood there and just stared at nothing gave her the creeps. So having him disqualified wasn’t so bad. So one down, two more to go and she would be free. But she needed time to think and plan.

* * *

The rest of the day consisted of the lords and their retinues getting settled into their lodgings and culminating in a grand feast at sundown in the great hall. The Dingwalls sulked silently at their own table but the general mood was festive as the Dunbrochs feasted their noble guests. Merida was withdrawn for most of the meal, her mind consumed in mapping out every possible idea that she could use to end this blasted marriage business. The Highland games would take place over the next week, culminating in a contest chosen by her where the suitors would compete for her hand. Due to the wording of the law that “only the first born of each of the great leaders may compete for the hand of the princess,” she could technically try to win her own hand and make this whole nonsense null and void. Merida was confident that if she could sneak her bow with her to the games, she could outshoot any of the suitors blindfolded. But that was a risky plan. She was sure her mother would not agree with her...interpretation of the rules, and it was waiting until the last possible moment to pull something off. There must be some way to change her fate before that became necessary. But thinking clearly was a bit of a problem when there were hundreds of Highlanders carousing around her.

Merida feigned tiredness from the day's activities and excused herself from dinner early. On the way out of the great hall, she swiped a flagon of ale from a serving tray near the door. She wasn’t *technically* allowed to drink that much ale until she turned 16 in a few months, but rules hadn’t gotten in her way before and she wasn’t about to start letting them now. Reaching the safety of her room, she quickly bolted the door and set the flagon and mug on her desk before beginning the agonizingly slow process of taking off her formal dress and donning something that would actually allow her to breath and move like a normal person. When that was accomplished, Merida poured a generous mug of ale from the swiped flagon and sat on the edge of her bed, trying to clear her head and plan for the coming days. She ran through the schedule for the week again and again, looking for any opening that would allow her to avert the contest for her hand, but nothing practical came to mind. Bribing wasn’t possible; her hand was worth more to the clans than anything she had the power to give. Assasination was out of the question, although putting an arrow through that smug Macintosh boy did have a certain appeal. Threatening might work, but she needed something to threaten them with first. Merida’s face lit up as she put the pieces together in her mind.

‘E’rryone has secrets and things they daenne want known about them,’ she thought to herself. ‘If I can find out what those secrets are, I can force them to withdraw from the contest. That’ll at least buy some time.’ 

Merida grabbed the flagon again, happy enough to have a toast now that she at least had a working battle plan for the coming week. She was surprised to find the flavor much lighter than she expected. How much had she drank already? Suddenly the idea of going to bed early seemed less like an excuse and more like a great idea. Merida climbed under the covers not even bothering to get fully undressed, listening to the background noise of the feasting and carousing highlanders slowly fade into white noise as she slowly sunk into unconsciousness.

Merida’s mind faded slowly back into consciousness. It was hard to tell what exactly dragged her back to the realm of the living. Maybe it was the change in tempo from carousing to yelling. Maybe it was the ring of metal on metal that dragged her back. Perhaps it was the heavy crash of hobnailed boots on the stone floors. Maybe it was the man she heard yelling somewhere outside her door. Wait, not yelling, screaming. Screaming in the way men do as their life leaves their body after a mortal wound. Merida’s eyes snapped open, blue orbs suddenly terrified in the dark.

Rising quickly, she grabbed and strung her bow, as well as a sword she wasn't technically supposed to have in her room. The tramp of iron nails on stone grew louder outside her door. Merida faced the door, sword held at the ready. In the close quarters her bow would be useless, she thought mournfully. Which was a shame because Merida was an expert with the bow, but only an enthusiastic amateur with the sword. The tramping feet stopped outside her door, and Merida felt her heart drop. She had never been in a real fight before,and the thought of having to take someone else's life or have hers taken filled her with terror. Something slammed into her door, making Merida flinch and the bolt jump in its bracket. Her door was well built but it was designed for privacy, not security. A determined attacker would force their way in sooner rather than later.

As if to emphasize the point, another blow struck the door, nearly ripping the locking bolt out of the wood and making Merida flinch. After a silence that seemed to drag on for an eternity, the third and final blow landed against the door, sending it off its hinges and crashing through the door. Light flooded into the room, forcing Merida to blink rapidly as her eyes tried to adjust to the rapid increase in light. Armed men rushed through the shattered entrance, their feature silhouetted by the torches of the passageway behind them. Merida swung her sword with all the strength she could muster at the nearest attacker, the heavy blade bouncing harmlessly off of a large rectangular shield. The man behind the shield stepped forward and grabbed her wrist, squeezing until the sword fell from her grasp. She fell back onto the floor, looking fearfully at the unknown attackers in front of her.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, she took in their features accurately for the first time. One of the men was wearing a chain mail shirt, the other was wearing some type of segmented armor Merida had never seen before. Both wore helmets with cheek guards and swept back necks. Both held matching short swords and shields with the casual grace of professionals. She never really had a chance against them she realized. A third man stepped into view. He wore greaves chased with silver and a polished bronze breastplate that was as much for show as for protection. On his head sat a fine helmet with a red plume sticking out the top. He gazed down at her with the haughty smugness that only a born aristocrat could master.

"Quid enim habemus hic?" He said with all the triumph of a cat who had just caught a fat mouse.


	2. The Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey away from Dun Broch proves more perilous than anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone! Sorry for the delay but I wanted to write ahead a little bit so I didn't write myself into a corner. I have a real quick poll for you all before we continue. As I said in Chapter 1, I'm going to be heavily bending the gender and social rules of the time because otherwise the story wouldn't really work. However, there is still a lot of angles that I could play this by and I'd like to get opinions on what you guys would like to see:
> 
> Option 1: Remain as close to history as possible in terms of gender rules, deviating only when required. So in general, no female generals and soldiers and senators. Women in the Empire will wield no official authority, and definitely won't ever be generals or involved in the military. There will still be female characters, but they will be confined to historically accurate roles  
> Option 2: Bend things a bit. Female government officials and officers are rare, but not unknown. Female rank and file soldiers won't really be a thing, and female senators and officers will be rare, but they could exist.  
> Option 3: Total freedom. Fuck it, here's an all female Legion. This is the "rule of cool," option. Both genders are functionally, legally, and politically equal, and women are just as physically capable as their male counterparts.
> 
> Vote here: https://strawpoll.com/jkgdds5h6
> 
> And with that, here is Chapter 2!

Chapter 2: Patricius

Patricius Aquilinus Aurelius, senior Tribune (1) of the II legion Augusta, rode his horse forward at a steady walk in the pre-dawn fog, the column of eighty Legionaries tramping behind him on the narrow forest track. Their spirits were high after avenging a Highland raid on a nearby Roman colony. They had embarrassed the proud Highland clans, taken back what was stolen and then some from right under their noses, and made their escape before the clans could rally and surround their heavily outnumbered vexillation (2) . 

He had even come away from it all with an unexpected bonus, Patricius mused to himself as he looked at the bound and gagged girl slung over his horse in front of him. They hadn't originally intended to gag her, but when she had kept up a torrent of what Patricius assumed were insults and profanities for over an hour, he finally grew tired of wondering when she would finally shout herself hoarse and just sped the process along. He had to admit she was quite beautiful though, in that wild barbarian way. Though he couldn't see them, Patricius could picture those defiant blue eyes glaring out from beneath a cascade of red curls. He absentmindedly ran a hand through the girl's hair, wrapping one of the locks around his finger and chuckling when she began squirming and writhing again. She had spirit, he had to give her that much.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew his attention back to the present. A Thracian Auxiliary Cavalryman, one of 30 he had brought along to screen his small force, cantered up and dipped his head in the informal salute that battlefield conditions necessitate.

“Report Decurion (3).”

“Tribune, the Highlanders have recovered from our attack and sent out scouting parties looking for us. We drove them back but they know where we are now. We should expect company soon,” the Decurion said in accented but quite passable Latin.

Patricius scanned the fog shrouded forest that surrounded them on all sides. Not the best place for a Roman to fight. Visibility is poor, their cavalry would be useless, and their infantry would be surrounded and picked apart under the trees.

“Thank you Decurion,” the Tribune said, his voice clipped with anxiety at the thought of a battle in the constricted terrain of a highland forest. The Decurion saluted again and rode off to rejoin his men, the sound of his horse’s hoofbeats quickly muffled by the stifling fog.

Patricius turned to the Centurion, (4) who was marching just behind him and ahead of his men. “The Celts are onto us, Vedrix.” The Centurion swore quietly. “Have the men march double time. We need to get out of these damn woods.”

The Centurion nodded approvingly. “Yes sir.” He relayed the command to the tramping Legionaries with a bellow that was well used to making itself heard over the crash of battle. At his voice, the men picked their pace to a brisk walk. It was a risky move. The Legionaries carried over 60lbs of armor and equipment, and that was before you added in the Highland loot they were hauling. They could only maintain this pace for so long before they became too exhausted to fight. But even that risk was better than fighting in the narrow confines of a forest where the enemy knew the terrain.

In front of him, the bound girl seemed to notice the change in energy and perked up a bit, no doubt hoping for a heroic rescue from her kin.

‘Not if I can help it,’ the Tribune thought as he spurred his horse on.

* * *

It took them another hour of hard marching before the trees thinned out and the track widened into something resembling a road. The column breathed a small sigh of relief, as a wider road meant they could march with more men abreast, which was easier to fight with than a long thin snake of men. And if the enemy came for them, they could at least see them coming now and put up a proper fight.

With the main danger now averted, the Centurion allowed the men to drop back to a normal marching pace to conserve their strength in case of a battle. The Highlands began to slowly flatten out as they marched south, the once rugged crags now gentle rolling hills. They continued on steadily for another hour, and as the morning sun finally began to pierce the veil of fog that hung over these lands like a cloak, the sounds of clashing steel and the whinnies of horses echoed back from behind them.

A cavalry trooper with a deep slash on his arm galloped up to the head of the column and pulled his horse to a stop. “Celts got the jump on us sir. They must have shadowed us using the narrow valleys for cover.”

Patricius turned sharply in his saddle to face the trooper. “How many are there and how far are they from us now?”

“At least five hundred. And half a mile maybe. Decurion Kadvast is harassing them to slow them down but they’re still gaining.” Someone screamed in the distance, the sound muffled in the fog.

“Ride back to Kadvast and tell him to perform a rear guard action as we engage in a fighting withdrawal. I’ll send him reinforcements to help.”

The trooper saluted quickly before wheeling his horse and galloping away. Vedrix had been standing nearby and had already begun issuing commands. Soon enough, the Optio (5) and thirty Legionaries broke off from the column and turned around to assist the cavalry while the main column picked up speed.

As the morning wore on, the sounds of battle grew closer and clearer, while the Tribune was kept informed of the situation by riders sent from the rear guard. The fight had settled into an uneasy stalemate as the small Roman column withdrew. The Highlanders knew they could swarm the rear guard and crush it if they wanted to, but the more heavily armed and armored Romans would make them pay a heavy price for it. And by the time the rear guard was dead, the rest of the column would be gone. So the two opposing forces sat back and eyed each other, probing the other for weak spots and looking for an opening that would secure them victory without the heavy cost. The Highlanders had also tried sending their lightest and fastest troops around the flanks of the Roman force, with the goal of getting up ahead of the Vexilation and blocking their path, but so far the cavalry had prevented that from happening.

As the column crested another low rolling hill, they saw it. Stretching out on both sides as far as the eye could see, the Vallum Britannica (6) or more simply “the Wall,” marked the Northern frontier of Imperial territory on the island. At the sight of safety so close at hand, the weary Legionaries redoubled their pace, eager to put some thick stone between them and the band of angry Celts that were pursuing them. Twenty minutes later, the Highlanders saw it too and with a roar, charged the Roman rear guard. 

A cavalry trooper, bloodied from the fighting and holding a shield with several new marks in it came wheeling to a stop in front of the Tribune. "Sir, the Highlanders have charged us. The guard is falling back towards the column but they'll be overrun before they get here."

Centurion Vedrix sprung into action immediately, ordering the rest of the column to halt and form a battle line. Patricius was more than a little incensed that the Centurion had given orders without his authorization, but he begrudgingly admitted that it was objectively the smart thing to do and now wasn’t the time for formalities.

As soon as the line was formed, the Centurion gave a signal to the Cornicen (7) who blew a short blast on his instrument. As one, the line of fifty legionaries advanced at the double to aid their comrades.

As the line advanced, Patricius turned back to the trooper who had brought him the news. "Drop your armor and shield on one of the carts and ride to the wall, fast as you can. Raise the alarm and get the garrison cavalry out here."

The trooper, ecstatic not to be sent back to the battle, dug his heels into his horse's flanks as he rushed to carry out the order.

Ahead of him, the legionary line was steadily advancing towards the thin red line holding back the far more numerous Celts, while the rear guard was falling back in turn. As the two lines closed, the front rank of the main force widened ever so slightly to allow their comrades to fall back through their formation.

When the last of the legionaries were through, the shields closed again, presenting a solid wall in the face of their attackers. The cavalry spread out on either side of the line to guard against flanking attacks and harass the enemy’s own flanks in turn, forcing them to devote men to guard their sides and take pressure off the centerline.

When the Highlanders pressed against the Roman line, the legionaries gave ground, retreating one step at a time while keeping their shields and gladii (8) at the ready. It was a tiring process, and it would be a grueling day if they had to do that all the way back to the wall.

Patricius turned in his saddle and gazed wistfully at the structure that was so close but just out of reach. Well, not technically out of reach for him. He could ride away, leave the men to their fate, and be behind that wall in fifteen minutes. But Patricius had no doubt in his mind that if he did that today, he would be decorating a cross by tomorrow for desertion and cowardice. 

Spurring his horse to a canter, Patricius quickly caught up to the rear of the line. Tactically their position wasn't horrible. The track wound through a narrow valley between two hills which made flanking them difficult and kept the front relatively narrow. The legionaries were fighting in ranks four deep, which wasn't great but it could be worse. On the far right of the line in the front corner, Patricius could see the bobbing crest of a Centurion's helmet as Vedrix anchored the line by holding its most dangerous position (9).

The legionaries took another step back in unison, while the Highlanders rained probing blows on their thick rectangular shields, filling the air with the thunks of weapons striking wood. At Vedrix's signal, the cornicen blew a single short blast and the front rank of legionaries withdrew behind the second line to rest while the second line surged forward to present fresh troops to the enemy.

Patricius felt helpless as he watched and followed the slow retreat of his forces. He wanted to do something to break the stalemate but there really wasn't anything to do with such a limited and outnumbered force. And he wasn't exactly the most maneuverable fighter right now given that he had a bound teenage girl slung over his horse. He grunted in frustration, eyes scanning the line again searching for something he had missed.

On the left, a Celt got too cocky in his attacks and found a Roman sword thrusting into his ribs, the blade withdrawing as quickly as it had come behind the line of red shields. On the right, a legionary overextended himself and took a spear to the side, the broad iron point punching into his armor and forcing him to withdraw to the rear with his hand clutching his side. When the man took his hands away, Patricius saw that there was no blood, so the armor had held, but the man would be lucky if he didn't have any broken bones all the same.

From behind the line, a shrill brassy note echoed in the distance. Straining his eyes to make out the details, Patricius could see that the gate in the wall was open and horsemen were streaming out. They were maybe a half mile away give or take. Projecting his voice, he called out to the men in the battle line. "Just a little longer lads, the garrison cohort (10) is on their way!"

The men gave a half-hearted cheer, too focused on the fight in front of them to indulge in the jubilation of the news. The Highlanders, seeing the approaching cavalry and not liking their odds against them, disengaged and began trailing the Romans at a distance as they retreated south. The bound girl screamed in frustration into her gag as she saw her rescuers slip away.

Patricus pulled his horse off to the side when he reached the gate. It wouldn't due to see him running for safety ahead of his men, so he stayed back and watched the Celtics force lingering just out of arrow range as the ranks of men and horses passed him. As he surveyed the Highland force, he noticed a man much larger than the rest who appeared to be the one giving orders to the Highland force. Despite his peg leg, the man was built like a literal bear. Upon seeing him, the bound girl began frantically kicking and squirming, desperate to slip her bonds.

As the Tribune maneuvered his horse towards the gate, he had finally had just about enough of her antics. Raising his hand, he smacked her hard across the rear. She got the message and behaved as Patricius guided his horse through the gate house and into the Roman Province of Brittania.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin Terms and context:  
> 1) Tribune: Tribunes were staff officers of Roman Legions. They were typically young men of aristocratic background who were doing military service as part of their political careers. They were not career soldiers and usually only served for a short time before taking up other appointments in Rome. Tribunes didn't have any permanent commands over any individual units but could be assigned to lead, do, or oversee different tasks as was required. Legions had six tribunes. Five of them were 'junior' Tribunes, typically from Equestrian (lower nobility) background. Their families were basically 'well off,' but not uber rich. The senior Tribune was from a Patrician (high nobility) family. These guys were uber rich and the senior Tribune would usually be groomed for higher command as a Legate (commander of a Legion), or General of a larger army. Politics and war were pretty inseparable in Rome so if you wanted to have a successful political career, being a competent commander was basically a necessity.
> 
> 2) Vexillation: A non-standard detachment from a legion that was created for some specific purpose. "Here, take some guys and go do this thing. When you're done, come back and rejoin us." That's a vexillation. Escorts, patrols, raids, etc. They could be pretty small at only a few hundred men, or they could be pretty big a good portion of Legion being detached to do some other task.
> 
> 3): Decurion: Leader of a cavalry squadron of 30 men. These guys were usually career soldiers, not political appointments.
> 
> 4) Centurion: Leader of an 80 man unit called a Century. Centuries were the basic unit of the Roman army and the smallest unit that could operate independently. Centurions were career officers and were the backbone of the army, often with decades of experience and many wars behind them. There are several different sub-ranks here, but they're not important right now.
> 
> 5) Optio: Second in Command to a Centurion. They help the Centurion run his Century and are waiting for a promotion of their own into the Centurionate.
> 
> 6) Vallum Britannica: this is Hadrian's Wall. I'm not calling it that because as I said I don't want to tie the story down to a specific year in history or specific characters so we're renaming it to keep some flexibility.
> 
> 7) Cornicen: Big brass curved horn used by the Romans to give signals and such.
> 
> 8) gladii: Plural of gladius, the short sword that the Roman legions used as their primary weapon.
> 
> 9) Centurions always led from the front and held the most dangerous spot on the right flank. That was the worst spot because in a shield wall, your shield is on your left arm and your sword is on your right. You protect your left side and the guy to your left with your shield, and the guy to your right protects your right side with his shield, and so on. On the far right corner, there is no one to protect your right side, making it the hardest place to be. Because they always led from the front in the worst spots, Centurions had a horrible death rate. Like you were more likely to die as a Centurion as a normal soldier.
> 
> 10) Cohort: Cohorts were the next unit up from a century. Each had six Centuries, totaling around 420 men, except for the First Cohort, which had five double strength centuries totaling around 800 men

**Author's Note:**

> And we're off to the races! I skipped over a lot of stuff from the movie Brave before the Lords arrive because I wanted to get into the story and not spend time transcribing the script of the movie. Let me know how the pacing is and if I'm going to fast or slow I'll also try to offer a definition of any Latin terms that some people may or may not know.  
> 1) "Quid enim habemus hic:" Basically means 'well what do we have here.'


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